


Birds of a Feather

by sweetfayetanner



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Brownham, M/M, and some gratuitous murder abs, mainly an excuse to have beaten up Will and Matthew, wearing nice clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1402588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetfayetanner/pseuds/sweetfayetanner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. </p><p>"Imagine if the hawks started working together."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birds of a Feather

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything. 
> 
> A/N: I have fallen hard for this ship.

They had been on the run for a couple weeks. They knew the running wouldn’t stop until they could put thousands of miles between themselves and what they’d done to Hannibal Lecter.

Will elbowed the door open after struggling with the key in his shaking fingers. He hadn’t quite stifled the surge of adrenaline and wondered, numbly, just how he had managed to drive Matthew’s car here. Moonlight spilled across the threshold into a motel room that was two steps away from seedy and condemnable. Will flicked the light, illuminating the room’s dingy carpet and stained wallpaper. A slight whine rose up from the corner where Winston was curled on the floor, his chin tucked between his paws.

Winston—one of the only beloved things Will had been able to salvage after Matthew’s botched first attempt at Lecter and subsequent prison break—trotted over to Will and immediately began sniffing around his legs, pawing at Will’s dark dress pants. There was no doubt he could smell the blood and Will’s anxiety, his body off-kilter from sore limbs and open wounds. Will scratched behind Winston’s ears, a fleeting, absentminded motion, before brushing him away and assuring him he was all right. Winston backtracked, but watched him expectantly, tail wagging.

Turning on his heel, Will went back out to the parking lot. His pulse thudded in his ears when he spotted an empty passenger’s seat, but slowed once his eyes landed on Matthew’s figure slumped against the side of the car. Hurrying over, Will crouched in front of Matthew to help him to his feet, hooking one arm around his back. Matthew had a half-drained bottle of wine clutched in his fist that he had been taking generous sips from the entire ride back to the motel. He swayed against Will as Will draped Matthew’s other arm across his shoulders. The blood dripping from Matthew’s forehead down the side of his face in thin ribbons looked black in the night.

“How bad is it?” Will asked as they stumbled the distance between the car and their room.

“I can’t feel a damn thing,” Matthew said, nodding at the bottle in his hand. His voice was drowsy, his impediment more noticeable.

He laughed and kicked the door shut before Will let go. Matthew sunk into the bed with a groan. Winston circled the two of them, worrying at their bloodied clothes and hunched over bodies. In the cheap yellowish light, the damage looked worse than either of them thought. There hadn’t been much of an opportunity to assess their own injuries by the time they’d left Lecter’s house spotless—except for the good doctor’s poetically displayed and triumphantly lifeless body—and Matthew had raided the wine cellar with a deft hand; the ride here had been a blur.  

Will loosened his tie while he paced to the bathroom for clean towels. He regarded his reflection in passing—the sea blue of his button-up shirt was splotched in the dark reds and browns of drying blood. Will was positive most of it wasn’t his. Sweat pooled at the small of his back and under his arms, dampening his shirt. Will’s dark curls were matted to his neck, the side of his face. His clothes were ruffled and his shirt was halfway untucked. He had left his suit jacket in the backseat of the car, though he vaguely recalled a tear in one of the sleeves.

It had been Will’s idea to dress up for the occasion—a mockery and a testament all the same.

Running a few small towels under water, Will tried to not to focus on the metallic smell that wouldn’t leave his nose and the tight feeling of someone else’s blood dried on his fingertips, imbedded in his nails. He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows haphazardly and went back to where Matthew sat on the edge of the bed, Winston hunkered down beside him. The bottle of wine had ended up on the bedside table, still somewhat full.

Matthew looked at Will with half-lidded eyes, his skin pallid and layered in a sheen of sweat. His chest rose and fell in a pained rhythm, a protest against the fresh scarlet stain that Will could see against the bright white of his shirt. He was more spattered than Will, wearing his own and Lecter’s and possibly Will’s blood on his clothes like a badge of honor.

Matthew had lost his tie completely, left behind with Will’s jacket. The first few buttons on his shirt were undone, revealing the sharp angles of his collarbones where perspiration had collected. His black waistcoat had been unbuttoned, too—the expensive material was torn where Lecter’s knife had connected. Will could see bruises blossoming on his forearms; he’d turned up the sleeves to his elbows before they left the motel, unwilling to give himself a disadvantage in the fight he knew they were going to have to face.

He had taken the brunt of Lecter’s counterattack, though Will hadn’t escaped unscathed. He felt the swollen discomfort of a split lip and tasted iron on his tongue. There was a cut somewhere on his cheekbone that stung, and Will was sure it would bruise, given time, if it hadn’t already.

Will stood in front of Matthew and pressed a damp towel to his forehead. Matthew leaned into his touch for a long moment before he took the towel from Will’s fingers and gingerly wiped the blood from his face. His lips upturned in a crooked smirk.

“Lecter’s blood looks good on you,” Matthew told him.

Despite himself, and every conflicting emotion running through his exhausted body, Will returned the small grin.

“How do you feel?” Matthew asked, in his soft-spoken rasp.

“I don’t know. Changed,” Will said. This wasn’t like killing Garrett Jacob Hobbs. This was something new entirely. “Free.”

Matthew’s grin widened, a glint of pride in his dark eyes. “Good.”

Will’s fingers, now steady, moved to the buttons of Matthew’s shirt beneath the waistcoat. The material was slick with crimson. A shallow gash ran a few inches from Matthew’s bellybutton and upwards, toward his ribs. It was an impressive and ugly wound, the neat edges of the torn skin mottled pink. Bruises in shades of purple and gray marred the toned planes of Matthew’s torso. Will’s gaze traveled past Matthew’s tattoos to the scar on his chest from Jack’s bullet. He couldn’t look at it for long. It made him feel guilty, still.

The damp towel that Will held against the wound made Matthew give a cry of pain. His muscles clenched under Will’s hand and his breath shuddered. Will almost recoiled, but Matthew’s palm settled on top of his, helping to slow the blood.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Matthew replied. “It was his knife, not yours.”

They stayed like that for several drawn out moments, allowing the tension and adrenaline to work its way out. Will was assured by the determined ebb and flow of Matthew’s chest against his palm. Matthew’s fingers curled around Will’s shirt as tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Someday, maybe in nightmares and fleeting silences, this would all catch up to them. But Will knew he wouldn’t have to bear that alone.

“Hand me that, would you?” he asked Will, gesturing to the wine bottle.

Will nodded. He left the towel in Matthew’s care and padded over to the bedside table. Lifting the bottle to eye-level, Will examined the label—something French; he wasn’t an expert in wine, though he wouldn’t put it past Matthew to pick the most expensive bottle Hannibal Lecter owned.

 _Had_ owned.

Matthew grabbed the bottle as Will settled on the bed next to him, his whole frame too tired to hold him upright any longer. Every movement felt like a struggle against his own body. Matthew glanced sideways at him and raised the bottle with a reverent dip of his head.

“A toast, Will,” he said, the smile returning, “to our perilous victory. To a pair of hawks who got away.”

Matthew took a liberal gulp of wine and passed the bottle to Will.

“…And stared into the eyes of the devil and lived,” Will added.

Matthew saluted at that. Will drank the wine until the stinging ache of his wounds dulled. He let the emptied bottle drop to the floor beside the bloodied towels Matthew had thrown aside. Matthew watched him, hazy from blood loss and the alcohol running its course.

For the first time in what seemed like years, Will gave Matthew a genuine smile. Leaning forward, Matthew seized Will’s loosened tie and brought their lips together. Will deepened their kiss, his thumb tracing Matthew’s cheekbone. Matthew’s fingers tangled into his hair, and when they finally broke apart, gasping for breath, Will felt Matthew’s crooked smirk against his own lips.

“No more cages.” He echoed Will’s words. “We’re free.”


End file.
